


A Too Thin Line

by romanticalgirl



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Bondage, M/M, S&M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted 7-31-11</p>
    </blockquote>





	A Too Thin Line

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 7-31-11

There are very definite lines. 

At the office or on the job, he doesn’t have to worry about them, because the job itself is a line – the darkest, most defined line in his life. His mind, the mental illness that looms just on the periphery is another line, his chalk outline, sprawled on asphalt somewhere. The rest of the lines are fainter, but no less there, the nodes and intersects what makes him who he is, what he can do, how he works.

Some lines, Spencer Reid does not cross. Some lines are carved deep into his psyche, some into his skin. Those are the lines he has to live by so he doesn’t lose himself. His life lines, he plans to say if he ever explains them to anyone, if he ever gets that far. Of course, if anyone gets that far, it will be far too late.

Hotch gets that far.

Hotch knows things that Gideon never did, the kind of things a father couldn’t or wouldn’t see. Hotch sees all those things in Spencer, like an electron microscope that can break him down into his component parts. He sees the way Spencer is the last to leave a meeting or stays late to finish reports. He notes the cant of Spencer’s body when everyone is busy looking the other way. Hotch sees and knows and never says anything, never does anything, and the waiting drives Spencer crazy. 

Crazier. 

“Do it.”

He’s not supposed to ask. Not supposed to speak. The problem is that the wait is more than he can take, the need is overwhelming. He’s been tied here for hours, and the ropes are burning his forearms, his ankles. He can feel the knots against the pulse points and he tries to arch his back against the restraint. 

“Please.”

The crop bites into him, leaving hot red lines on his skin. He shudders and fights to be silent, but the gasp slips out. He bites his lower lip until he can feel the skin break, sucking his own blood to keep his focus, his control. He loses count of the strokes, each impact bleeding into the other. 

He strains against the rope and feels his skin scream under the movement as he tries to curl in on himself. He turns his head in time to see Hotch bring his foot down, pressing his leather-soled shoe against Spencer’s neck to hold him down to the floor. He arches up in response and the tongue of the crop slaps at his upper thigh, the shaft of it striking across the back of his other leg. 

“P-please.” He tastes blood and sweat and he’s staring up at Hotch with wide eyes. 

“Please what?” His voice is low and rough and his grip around the crop’s handle is tight enough that his knuckles are white. Spencer wants to beg for more, but limits are lines too. 

“S-sir.” 

Hotch steps away and sprawls into a chair, breathing hard. His face is composed, his brow furrowed even as he undoes his slacks and works his dick out. Spencer can only watch, trembling as Hotch fists himself, stroking fast and hard so that all Spencer can see is the flushed, red head of it, the slick white of his pre-come.

Spencer licks his lips and strains at the ropes, hating his weakness, hating that Hotch knows his weakness. He ducks his head, face against his hands as Hotch comes, jerking off onto the floor. Spencer knows that they’re both thinking the same things, the things that make this impossible with anyone else – DNA, blood evidence, rope fibers, bruise patterns, lividity. 

Hotch uses his foot to roll Spencer onto his back, leaving him trussed like a roped calf as he reaches down, latex glove on his hand as he grips Spencer, stroking him roughly until everything peaks in a shuddered rush and Spencer comes, jerking against the ropes and Hotch’s hand.

He stays like that for what feels like hours, pain etching new lines into his skin as every breath makes him feel the marks from the crop anew. Everything hurts and nothing aches, and then he feels Hotch’s touch, the soft press of his fingers as he unfastens the knots. The first one slipping loose is like the dam breaking, and Spencer lets out a rough, raw gasp, shock and sobs wracking his body. Hotch gathers Spencer against him and holds him, undoing the rest of the ropes one handed, while the other one keeps Spencer close. Pulls him back from the edge. 

One more day on this side of the line.


End file.
